


Chromatopelma cyaneoubescens

by DustyForgotten



Series: Arachnophobia [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bipolar Disorder, Bugs & Insects, Christmas Shopping, Drunk Texting, Gen, Humor, M/M, Mania, New Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 07:37:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13313505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustyForgotten/pseuds/DustyForgotten
Summary: “I can’t believe Phasma wanted to argue you’re straight; you’re so obviously a bear.”“I’m bi,” he asserts.“And I’m a twink.” Hux blinks, unflinchingly at Kylo, before turning into a Kay Jewelers. “Moving on.”





	Chromatopelma cyaneoubescens

**** There’s somebody talking about quinoa, promising Demi Lovato’s going to perform any minute now— and holy fuck, Kylo was supposed to be up two hours ago. Still dressed from last night, familiar with waking up on his sofa and knocking over whiskey bottles left on his coffee table— he doesn’t have time to deal with the spill. Yanks on the coat he slept under, and stubs his toe on that damned table on the way out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Pros of being the scariest person at your workplace: no one asks why you’re late.

Hux already has six tabs open on larvae lifecycle, scrawling on a legal pad left-handed. Kylo grabs the pen from him, and cuts him off when Hux looks like he’s going to argue, “It’s my fuckin’ pen.”

He sighs dramatically as he takes another from the cup on his desk. “You’re a toddler.”

“Yeah,” he says in a way that might be sarcastic, or maybe affirmative, depending on who’s listening. “You’re a pen thief.”

Just from looking at the back of his head, Kylo can tell he’s rolling his eyes. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like shit.” Last thing he remembers is mumbling drowsy agreements while Hux went on and on about how to accurately portray the stages of decomposition, thinking this has to be the weirdest bedtime story ever told. “You?”

“Surprisingly well. I’d expected your bed to be ruined, like the rest of your things, but it was unexpectedly comfortable.”

“Bought a new mattress like three months ago…” he mutters. Finally got his pen back, and now he can’t find the pad. Frustrated, Kylo holds his pocket open with both hands and peers in, only to find that this is not his trenchcoat. Looking up, he snatches the notepad Hux holds out to him. “Why were you in my room?”

“You were crushing me,” he replies, clicking his pen against the table as he skims an article.

Kylo wrestles the garment off— and he’s kind of amazed it fit, but that’s just a testament to how big Hux tries to be— and hangs it from the cubicle divider. “Just give me my coat.”

“Take it,” Hux snaps, scratching something out. “Smells like ammonia, anyway.”

“Fine,” Kylo retorts before he can stop himself, because Hux is giving him what he wants, however begrudgingly: now is not the time to argue. He takes the outerwear from where it’s draped over Hux’s shoulders, who doesn’t give any indication he notices its loss. He slips it on and fiddles with the collar; he’s pretty sure Hux turned it up at some point. Fucking nerd scrolls past a subheading on pupation and jots some notes, totally absorbed. Fine. Kylo’s not desperate for attention, or anything.

When he turns, a pen clicks and clatters discarded against the desk. “Ren, wait.”

Hux reaches around to grab Kylo’s far lapel and tug until they’re facing each other, and he really has no right to look so put-together when he was cackling from the far armrest— buzzed at best— less than ten hours ago. What he really had no right to do is reach into the breast pocket of the coat he just returned, and come back with a tarantula.

What’s embarrassing is how far back Kylo has to stumble, with how far forward he leaned when Hux got close.

The damned bug fuck coaxes his spider onto the keyboard, where it skitters way quicker than Kylo wants to believe an arachnid can move, and swings his own pea coat over his shoulders. He has to flick the tail out of his way before he sits, and says, “Don’t flatter yourself, Ren.”

Eloquently, he replies, “Fuck off,” before stomping away.

His overcoat absolutely does _ not _ smell like ammonia. A little BO, maybe.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Oh, right. Dead body in his backyard; forgot about that.

He’s never done so much paperwork in his life— and he’s in law enforcement. They put him on fucking suspension— just until “everything was sorted” the chief swore. Yeah, he’s had enough time in law enforcement; due process is a fucking waiting game. He’s gonna be out here chopping trees just ‘cause it feels good to hurt something for hell-knows how long.

There’s no hurting for firewood; that’s for sure.

He’s shivering where he’s not sweating, snow-blind and exhausted from working through an anger that feels bigger than he is, Kylo just wants to fall down on the sofa with his snow boots still on, pass out with whatever they play on daytime television these days. There’s whiskey half-carmelised on his coffee table, dripped down on a rug so threadbare the pattern looks a little something like paisley. Or argyle. What did it look like when he bought it, anyway?

Wiping up the remnants of his own bad decisions, Kylo lifts to corner of the carpet to make sure it hasn’t soaked through, and sends a roach skittering for safety. Alone in his own home, Kylo can let out a startled scream as loud as he likes. Either way, he squishes the damn thing. The pussy viscera that spills from its split exoskeleton has always been more revolting than blood and bile. What’s even more disgusting is that the first thing he thinks of is Hux. It’s his fault, after all.

Just to rub it in, he snaps a photo, and sends it to the man, later adding the addendum of,  _ are u doing this on purpose? _ He falls asleep during Dr. Phil, and first thing he wakes up, sees there’s still no response.

Not like he wanted one.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Kylo honestly had no idea how much of a workaholic he is until he’s abandoning the sandwich spread because the news station he’s left on all fucking day mentions a burglary, and he’s strangling a squeeze-bottle of mayo because he can’t be there. He’s furiously eviscerating a BLT when that same newscaster he’s growing to fuckin’ loathe says that drowning from November was ruled suicide.

Well, there goes his lunch.

What about the tide patterns— what about the larvae? He’s no detective, but if that’s what they came up with, they obviously shouldn’t be. One heated call with the police chief later, and Kylo’s not sure how in hell he can survive indefinite suspension when he’s already this antsy and it’s only been a week.

He’s prepared to hang up before he hits voicemail when the line goes quiet. Kylo checked caller ID to make sure it didn’t drop before he inquires, “Hux?”

“ _ Speak. _ ”

Eyes fall to the tied trash bag sitting by his front door, and he doesn’t mention that Hux never texted him back. “You hear they called that drowning suicide?”

Pause, staticy shifting. “ _ Oh, you mean ours? _ ”

It feels like his ribs turn into a fist around his lungs at the sound of Hux saying  _ ours _ . “You know that’s not a goddamn suicide.”

“ _ Yes, yes, Ren, we all know— doesn’t mean the public has to. _ ”

He takes the plastic handles of the garbage bag over one shoulder, and toes the door open. It’s snowing, he’s in nothing more than sweats, but sometimes it can feel nice to freeze. “There’s a fucking murderer on the loose.”

“ _ You’re so dramatic, _ ” he mumbles, but companionable silence falls over the phone line. “ _ How’s the suspension treating you? _ ”

“Shitty,” Kylo bites back. Snow packs under fur-lined shoes as he trudges down his driveway in the dark. “I’m losing my fuckin’ mind out here.”

“ _ I know that feeling. _ ”

He’s hoisting the bag into a can on the street, phone crushed between his cold-numb ear and shoulder when Kylo mutters, “Don’t want to be here.”

There’s a moment where Kylo thinks he’s about to lose the only person he can talk to. Like he muted the call in favour of far more important things, switched lines to tell Phasma the latest on a psychotic CSI, or just hung up altogether. Like he didn’t hear. Like he just doesn’t know what to say.

“ _ I’m on my way for Boston Market. Care to join? _ ”

His ungloved hand hovers shivering by the door handle. He thinks of Hux, sitting alone on a polyurethane-plastic chair, pinkie up from a plastic knife. He imagines the can lights giving the ginger a golden halo, like the first time Kylo saw him, with the orange-and-black caution colours of the spider on his shoulder. Teeth chatter when his jaw unlocks. “I’d like that.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

There’s an order of baked apples in a plastic carry-out bag, swaying at Hux’s side as he strides down the sidewalk. They’re supposed to be walking next to each other, but Hux goes where he wants, and Kylo either follows or goes home.

“I still have no idea what to get Phas for Christmas,” he admits, looking in a Things Remembered window. Kylo first processes Hux celebrating Christmas, followed by the concept of him spending it with Phasma. “I think I’ve exhausted the acceptable number of gift cards in that relationship.”

He’s barking up the wrong tree; Kylo has gotten his mother earrings six years running. “Get her like a necklace or something. Women like jewelry.”

Hux rolls his eyes over one shoulder. “I can’t believe Phasma wanted to argue you’re straight; you’re so obviously a bear.”

“I’m bi,” he asserts.

“And I’m a twink.” Hux blinks, unflinchingly at Kylo, before turning into a Kay Jewelers. “Moving on.”

It’s cold out, but he’s got his hands in the pockets of his coat, which keeps him warm up to the neck. Normally he’d put the hood up, but he’s worried about his hair all of the sudden. Kylo catches the chilly door handle before it can close after Hux, and ducks inside. He looms over the entomologist’s shoulder, like the ugly sugar daddy approving all his purchases. He’s started ordering for Mother’s Day off Avon, because he’s sick of clerks trying to upsell for “a special lady” in his life. There are no ladies in his life; he’s an antisocial mountain man that cuts his own hair— poorly.

“Well, she’s a medical examiner and bitch,” Hux tells a clerk taking it in stride, “and that’s pretty much all there is to it.”

“Wow. If that’s how you talk about your friends, I don’t want to know what you’re saying about me…” He really, really does.

Offhand, Hux replies, “I have better things to talk about.”

Fists clench in the pockets of his coat, and Kylo turns to a different counter. They’ve got wedding bands in camo, for fuck’s sake. He can’t pretend he’s not listening though; Hux doesn’t even remember his best friend’s birthday. How long have they known each other?

“I do know she’s a Virgo,” Hux admits to a clerk trying desperately to remember zodiac conversions.

“I’m a Cancer.”

“Yes, you are.” Looking over a selection of birthstone necklaces, that could be an obnoxious affirmation, surprise he actually got it right, or complete apathy. Earlier at lunch, he wouldn’t shut the hell up, and now he’s saying everything to end the conversation.

Well, fuck him. It’s Kylo’s turn to talk. “I’m surprised you listened to me.”

“I’m not, really.”

“I’m the one that said to get her a necklace.”

He straightens his back from hunching over the case, puts a facetious smile on before asking the clerk for their ring options. Kylo would laugh at how fucking petty that is, if he weren’t astounded at Hux’s ability to move every muscle in his face for any expression he wants. Kylo wouldn’t bother to hide the grin currently adorning him, anyway.

Without looking over, Hux complains, “I shouldn’t have invited you.”

“I never invited you to my place, but you showed up anyway.”

“You gave me your address, you cock!” he snaps, whirling on him. Finally, some acknowledgement. “I drove out to your place in the middle of the night because you sounded upset, you son of a—” He stops himself there, Kylo’s shoulder shaking and biting his lip. “Prick,” he mutters, stomping off to meet the clerk where she offers up rings for his perusal. He blushes like a shy schoolgirl, but he should have expected as much from a redhead. All his skin so see-through, maybe that’s why he got into acting. Hard to be manipulative when you’re so obvious.

Told off, but feeling like the victor, Kylo saunters over, checks out the clearance while he’s here, but he’s never called for Christmas, and he’s not about to start planning ahead for his mother’s birthday. Hux is handling some modest thing with small lavender stones around the whole circumference, and says, “I think she’ll like that.”

Kylo’s never noticed if Phasma even wears jewelry— not sure a coroner could— but he nods, even if Hux isn’t looking.

“Great. What size ring does she wear?”

“Oh hell,” Hux moans, “just give me a gift certificate.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

He calls for Christmas. Doesn’t get up when the fire dies out, still hasn’t put on a shirt, sits through the entire Santa Clause series. His phone died somewhere between that and New Year’s; he slept straight through the ball drop, and watched the next morning’s parade over stale cereal.

When it finally comes on, he wonders when the fuck he got so popular.

His mother took one moment of weakness as reason to liveblog every fucking moment of the next week. Evidently she gave his father the number too, but he thankfully hasn’t used it for more than one “Happy New Year” sent to his entire contacts list. There’s an unknown from a nearby area code that says only “i tried to stop him” and then… Well damn. Kylo has so far embraced alcoholism that he forgot some people wait until two holidays a year to drunk-text friends. Acquaintances. Whatever’s going on.

“ _ I planned on a couple glasses of champagne and kissing a stranger, but I’m on my second martini courtesy of a man with a yellow handkerchief. Can’t remember for the life of me what that means, but I suppose we’ll see. _ ”

“ _ Third martini, feeling friendly _ ”

“ _ I googled it ABORT _ ”

“ _ camping in the upstairs bath no word from phas _ ”

“ _ wish id brought the martnin _ ”

“ _ whatre you doing fr new years _ ”

“ _? _ ”

“ _ i pulled the showr curtain and now theres a straight couple making out n the sink _ ”

“ _ oh god thyere fucking _ ”

“ _ atleast it didnt last long _ ”

“ _ theres a secnted candle in the corner wonder if anyone wolud loan me a lighter _ ”

“ _ who the fuck trusted me with fire _ ”

Selfie in an unfamiliar bathroom mirror; he’s all flushed and mussed, but smiling. “ _ stll have both my eyebrows were good _ ”

“ _ phasma found me im n love with this woman _ ”

“ _ SHE BROUGHT CHAMPANGE _ ”

“ _ wish it were th new year already so i can slep and wake up hating myself _ ”

Time stamps roll over to 2018.

“ _ guess who kissed hankerchief guy turns out its just a pocket square _ ”

“ _m sleeping in an uber_ _happ ynew year_ ”

Then the newest of messages— the one his phone went off for: “ _ Fuck me. _ ”

Kylo laughs to himself, and says, “ _ Happy New Year Hux. _ ”


End file.
